


My Dear

by Kittywitch



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittywitch/pseuds/Kittywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor visits Lethbridge-Stuart on the night the Doctor knows he will die, making sure that he doesn't die alone. Past romance is implied but not stated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dear

It was a home for old soldiers. There was no getting around that. There were dozens of old men, just like him; resenting the way their bodies broke down around them, the way their minds would bend to one way like old brush bristles, constantly preparing them for an attack that would never come. They'd tried to pull him out of retirement before, but he knew that he was long past that ever happening again. He wasn't going to be called up no matter what attacked from where. Several attacks had already passed, covered up of course, but when you've been the one covering up for thirty years, you know a cover-up when you see one. Especially the ones that started with "it wasn't really an alien." No one was believing that anymore. At least no one in London.

 

Three years ago, they'd moved him out of the London home. They'd closed it, because every time something happened, it happened in London. He couldn't decide whether or not he liked it that way, removed from both the hope to help and the temptation of trying. Those foolish welps at Torchwood. He'd been controlling alien threats when they were just glimmers in their parents' eyes. He knew he could help, at least in an advisory capacity. And if he were put in that position, he would actually advise, unlike some people he could mention. Of course, the old warhorse urge to do more would exist, the unshakable knowledge that he knew better than those he'd have to answer to. But no, he was simply too old. Too damn old.

 

His face was etched over with lines, his hair and mustache had turned first grey and then white, what scars he had fading and lost among the various wrinkles and age spots across his body. That even was hidden entirely by his clothing.

He sat by the window, neither staring at it or reading the newspaper they had allowed him. There was a generic tartan lap rug over his knees, and it made him look like they didn't expect him to get out of the chair until someone came to help him out. He could show them. He'd gotten into the chair himself, with the help of a cane, of course, but he'd gotten into it himself and he'd get out himself or he'd never get out again. Lap rug or no lap rug. It wasn't his family's tartan, but no one else seemed to care about that. His mind kept flashing to a formal occasion where he'd worn it. His subordinates kept trying not to laugh, as if they hadn't dealt with a man in far sillier dress. As if they weren't doing so at the time. His thoughts kept coming round to that time again and again. It was such a short period of his life, if he looked at it objectively, but he couldn't help feeling that was the important part, the part of his life that defined who he was. They could promote him all they liked, he could even leave UNIT, but he would always be the man he was in those few arduous years. The brigadier.

 

"Good evening, my dear brigadier."

 

Lethbridge-Stuart turned his head, raising an eyebrow at his visitor. Usually a nurse would escort them in, nattering on about how lovely it was that someone had come to see them and fussing and arranging things and making a a great show of how an occasion it was that an old soldier had been remembered. But he knew that wouldn't be the case with this man.

He stood alone, framed in a doorway that the brigadier hadn't heard open. His hands were in his trouser pockets, his head cocked to one side.

It was a voice he'd never heard in his life, coming from a face he'd never seen; but there was no question of who it belonged to. Only one man he'd ever known had addressed him in that fashion. Only one who dared. And only one who could take on a new voice.

In some ways, he reminded Lethbridge-Stuart of how he looked when they had first met. Unruly dark hair, an expression that was at the same time friendly and condensing. He'd even adopted the bow-tie again. But he was young. So young and yet so old.

 

The old endearment came out stilted, like an affectation. He probably hadn't said those words for a long time and under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have said them ever again. Except for, as appeared to be the case, for Lethbridge-Stuart's benefit. It was not so much a hint to his identity but a confirmation of the old soldier's suspicions, slipping a long past in-joke into a conversation with a friend he hadn't seen, or made any effort to see, for nearly thirty years. Perhaps more for the time traveller. Perhaps less. Either way, it brought to mind their time together with an almost painful nostalgia, and two could play at that.

 

"Doctor Smith, I presume?" he asked. The young-old man smiled. He moved further into the room, drawing a seat near the old soldier, then settling into it with all the delicacy of a debutante. For a moment, the two simply stared at one another, taking in the differences in their appearances and what that suggested.

Slowly, the Doctor began to shake his head.

"Oh, Alastair..." the Doctor murmured. "What business have you being so old?"

"What business have _you_ being so young?"

The two men made a noise that would have been much like laughter if it were louder and didn't die out so quickly. Then, at length, the human spoke.

 

"What brings you here, Doctor?"

"Why, the TARDIS, of course."

"This is no time for levity. You only ever appear when the world's on the brink of ending. And it's been there, dozens of times, but I never saw you."

"Perhaps I just came to say 'hello' to an old friend." his neck craned awkwardly on his neck. "Catch up, have a cup of tea... you know the whole business..."

"Relive the glory days and remind me that I didn't imagine the whole thing?" he asked. "No, unlike you, Doctor, some old friends keep in touch. Mrs. Jones --Jo--" he added by way of explanation, "-still sends me a card each Christmas. Recently had her first grandchild."

"Really? I ought to look her up sometime..." he murmured. "And Mike?"

"He's still in the military, actually. Wrote a book all about dealing with, well, folks like you-"

"Aliens?"

"But it would never get published outside of a training manual. Benton did get out of that used-car nonsense, back at UNIT like a sensible man, a Lieutenant now--and yet he's the only one who remembers I'm here these days." he took a breath, far sharper than it ought to have been. Was it the air in this home? Was it over-conditioned, perhaps? Maybe he ought to get a humidifier. He wouldn't, of course, asking would be beneath his dignity and the very idea of requiring it was ridiculous. "And Sarah..."

"Oh, I know about Sarah. She's doing alright for herself. I've seen her. You remember the night when all the stars changed?"

"I wasn't allowed outside for that." Lethbridge-Stuart said shortly. "Imagine, a man who drafted the nations plans for extraterrestrial threats not being allowed out to see the stars change? How old do they think I am?

"Don't ask me, I have enough trouble taking anyone under two hundred seriously."

"And when precisely was the last time you met someone your age, Doctor?"

"My point exactly."

"I see. I thought you taking something seriously was a bit odd."

"And Harry?"

"Dr. Sullivan died several years ago. I thought you knew."

 

There was another slight pause, then the Doctor cocked his head.

"And you, Alastair?" he asked. "You've mentioned everyone but yourself."

"...I spent a lot of time in Peru." he said at length. "And you, Doctor?"

"Oh, me.... You know how it is... saved a couple worlds--you lose track after a while-- lost my mind, got it back, lost it again... fought a war, fell in love, lost her too... got married... different girl this time."

"Stop trying to make me laugh."

"What do you mean?"

"You with a woman--I can't picture it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." the Doctor said shortly. "I was surrounded by lovely young women the entire time you knew me." He lifted his eyes to the other man's and watched the eyebrows cock sardonically.

"I see your point." he laughed.

 

"You didn't come to say hello to me. You came to say goodbye."

"What was that?" asked the Doctor. Lethbridge-Stuart stared soberly at the timelord.

"I'm going to die soon, aren't I?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're here. I suppose you learned about my death and came to see me off. I hardly take that this is a purely social call."

"Why else would I be here?"

"To salve your conscience, Doctor."

"My conscience?!" he repeated, aghast.

"You _did_ abandon your post." Alastair said sharply. "And your lab."

"I suppose I did, at that." he murmured. "Not so much as a two-week's notice."

"Even that car I arranged for you."

The Doctor grinned.

"It was hardly a car before I got my hands on it. Oh, I got her running beautifully, but where ever did you find her?"

"...and your assistant." he added, not caring to go over that when time was at such a premium. "Poor Sarah was in a real state when you left. She's gone off and started endangering all sorts of young folk now, where do you think she picked that up?"

"Oh, I made it up to her." the Doctor muttered offhandly.

"...and me." he added at length. "I kept calling you in, but there was a point at which you... simply stopped answering."

Both of the men where quiet for a moment.

"There was a time you stopped calling for me, my dear brigadier."

"After a time, I had to." he answered quietly. "There's a point where we all had to admit that no knight in a blue box was coming to save us. We had to start fending for ourselves again. Some of us, I dare say, had forgotten how. You had spoiled us, Doctor."

"Well, the Earth is my second-favorite planet. Always had been a pet fancy of mine."

"That's rather how you treated us." the old man answered, staring into the distance. His voice was firm, but there was the suggestion of an injury he refused to acknowledge at the edge of it. Perhaps even that would have been hidden if he hadn't been so tired and so old.

 

"You didn't argue. Just then, you changed the subject, but you didn't argue. I asked if I was dying and you didn't answer so you wouldn't have to lie."

"I lie all the time, my dear man. I've lied to you before."

"Often enough that I know what it sounds like." the old man turned his eyes back to the window. "That's why you didn't try it just now, is it not?"

The Doctor looked at the age lines cutting across his friend's face, the paunch collected under the blanket. The remains of a good man he'd watched form a career and shape Earth's external relations. His mouth felt oddly dry.

"Yes." said the Doctor quietly.

"If that's the case, you'd best be going." said Lethbridge-Stuart. "No one wants to die with no company but a doctor." The alien stared at him for a moment.

"Liar." he said softly.

 

The man who appeared young reached forward and cupped the other's temple in his hand. He then leaned over the seated man and planted a parental kiss on his forehead. Lethbridge-Stuart jerked away.

"I've had quite enough of that, Doctor. There were rumors when you were at U.N.I.T."

"Ah, that's me." the Doctor smiled. "Mentioned specifically in The Shadow Proclamation, two acts of Parliament, the Geneva Convention, and U.N.I.T.'s 'Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell' policy."

This actually made Lethbridge-Stuart laugh, but it quickly turned into a cough. The Doctor turned away delicately.

 

"I'll just make us a cup of tea, shall I?" the Doctor asked, stepping away. Lethbridge-Stuart nodded, each bob of his chin growing closer to his chest. Perhaps, he would just close his eyes for a moment, listen to the burbling sound of the Doctor's voice and remember the good he had done in the world. The good done by both of them. One man always doing what was right, and one what was necessary; and the brilliant good done when they worked together. His eyes closed, and he stopped raising his chin.

 

"Do you still take it black, Lethbridge-Stuart?" asked the Doctor, having finally found the mugs. "I still take what you'd call an obscene amount of sugar, but I stopped dissolving jellybabies in it; I say live life to the fullest when you're guaranteed a fresh set of teeth in ten years or less-- course, I started saying that when I spent far more than ten years on a set of teeth..."

He stopped prattling on and looked behind him. Lethbridge-Stuart should have interrupted with a comment about talking nonsense by now.

He had known it was coming soon, he'd timed it for that. He didn't want a long goodbye, he was utter rubbish at those. But he'd thought he'd given himself just a little more time. There was so much he hadn't said. So many strange little faces he'd wanted to see him make. Old memories to go over and missing gaps to go over. But there was no time for that now. The soldier had become just one more friend he'd always known he would outlive.

 

"Goodbye, my dear."

 

The Doctor sighed and set down the mugs. He touched his forehead in a salute he'd have never given his friend had he been alive to see it, pressed the nurse call button, returned his hands to his pockets and exited the room.

 

There was another adventure to be had.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2012 as a reaction to finding out Nicholas Courtney (and by extension, Lethbridge-Stuart) had died.


End file.
